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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ▪▫▪▫▪
MORANA WAS NEVER A SWEET INNOCENT LITTLE GIRL. It was not fathomable that she could've been one. She was born in the Barrel, raised by a bitter woman who resented her for merely existing, and the blood flowing through her veins was dangerous and dark.
She was never a sweet innocent girl thrown into a cruel world. She was born from the depths of hell, a villain for a father, shadows for a family, a monster for a mother.
Her childhood had been poisoned by her mother, she'd grown up not as a little girl but as a sweet little poisonous abomination. She had to learn to make herself kind. To grow her sympathy where there had been no seed. She had to learn to trust and love on her own, for her mother was not going to be the one to teach her.
Bluebeard was her first real... role model. A rum-scented pirate with a black beard and blue swirls and images tattooed on his bald hair. Learning how to yield a sword and make man flinch by a mere look, learning how to parlay and talk as if she had a point to distract captors was useful. It was something. But Bluebeard hadn't taught her how to trust nor love. He'd died while she ransacked his ship with another crew, shot through the heart by another pirate, and swallowed by the sea.
Morana Zoreslava hadn't cried when her mother died. But she did shed a tear for Bluebeard.
Learning how to trust and love came with time and Morana wasn't sure she fully knew either of the two.
She did know she'd die for her friends; the ones she picked up over the years; the ones she admitted to herself were her family when she'd joined Sturmhond's crew. And now she could not picture her life without them, her other life, as the Crimson Mirage was like a far-off memory and... in all honesty, Morana wasn't sure she wanted to return to it. To a life of mistrust, and lackluster in love and friendship and light.
Morana smiled as she looked at Alina and Baghra walking in the front of the group, leading their horses by the reins at their side. Her gaze fleeted over to Mal, riding beside her.
"You alright?" she asked him lowly and Mal tore his eyes away from Alina, looking at her with a nod.
"Could be better."
"We're at war with a maniac," said Morana, "we could all be better."
"He's your father," Mal pointed out.
Morana rose an eyebrow at him. "And?"
He shrugged, "You're calling him a maniac. Which is true. But what if it's hereditary?" he said with a small smirk and Morana reached over to shove him in the shoulder.
"I'm not a maniac, Mal, darling," she told him, "But I can become one if you annoy me enough."
"What's the limit then? I wouldn't want to cross it."
